


The Tube is not an Acceptable Place for a Harpoon

by Loopy456



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Gen, Harpoon, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loopy456/pseuds/Loopy456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes on the tube. Covered in blood. With a harpoon. Someone was bound to call the police eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tube is not an Acceptable Place for a Harpoon

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted another break from writing angst, and it occurred to me that nowhere in ‘Hounds’ does is state that Sherlock was not, erm, apprehended during his pleasant journey on the tube. It then also occurred to me that forcing Donovan to deal with such an incident could provide scope for amusement. And then this happened.
> 
> Happy Easter everyone :)

In order for Londoners on the tube to communicate in any way, shape or form, something serious must be occurring. Nothing much fazes them. Which is why, of course, it takes thirty minutes and two changes of line for the Transport Police to turn up.

At Oxford Circus, two officers push their way onto the train and hesitantly seize the arm of The Disturbance. It’s not difficult, as the surrounding area is almost completely clear of passengers. All the tourists are squashed up in one end of the carriage, and only a few brave Londoners have stuck around. It’s likely that some of them haven’t even looked up from their papers to take notice of what’s going on around them.

‘You’ll, erm, you’ll have to come with us, Sir,’ says the first officer, a little nervously.

Sherlock looks at them indignantly.

‘I’m almost home,’ he says resentfully. ‘It’s really taken you over half an hour to find me?’

‘A woman got off the train at Charing Cross to inform the officers there, Sir,’ the second officer informs him. ‘We got the call not thirty seconds ago. You’re lucky we’re here at all.’

‘I’m lucky?’ Sherlock says. ‘In what way is any part of this situation lucky for me?’

‘Come with us, Sir, please,’ the first officer implores him. The harpoon is making him wary.

‘Oh, if you will insist on being tiresome,’ Sherlock sighs, and marches off the train. ‘This isn’t real blood, by the way. Well, it is real, but it’s not what you’re thinking. It comes from a pig. So I’m not a serial killer, although, as of approximately an hour ago, I now know several excellent ways to kill someone using a harpoon. There are more than one would imagine.’

Sherlock is escorted up the escalator and into a waiting police car. For some reason, no-one wants to take the harpoon away from him.

‘Baker Street, please,’ he says. ‘You know, Lestrade claims you’re not a taxi service but I think you do a pretty fine job of it.’

‘Lestrade?’

The police officer behind the wheel looks around at his colleague.

‘I know that name,’ says the first officer, who has slid into the passenger seat and is now eying Sherlock uneasily over his shoulder.

‘He works for Scotland Yard,’ Sherlock supplies helpfully. ‘Detective Inspector Lestrade.’

Really, this is all beyond tedious. Any fool should have been able to see that he’s not a threat, harpoon or no harpoon. Any decent serial killer would have begun wielding his weapon within seconds of the doors closing and the train departing the station, ensuring a temporary period with no method of escape for his fellow passengers.

He informs his chauffeurs of this fact.

Uneasy glances are exchanged in the front of the police car.

‘Also, if I was a serial killer I would hardly have got on at the station that I did,’ Sherlock says thoughtfully. ‘The next station is only thirty seconds away. Alright, you can harpoon a fair number of people in thirty seconds, particularly crammed into a small place like the carriage of an underground train, but I would have had the intelligence to pick a station with very limited security and at least a two or three minute window in which to act before the next station.’

The police officer behind the wheel presses his foot hard on the accelerator.

***

Donovan is waiting for them outside Scotland Yard.

‘What have you been up to now, Freak?’ she demands, banging the car door open the moment it pulls up in front of her.

‘Good morning, Sergeant Donovan,’ Sherlock says smoothly, somehow managing to exit the police car with his usual grace, while still clutching his harpoon. ‘Where is Lestrade?’

‘Not here,’ Donovan snaps. ‘He’s got better things to do than deal with your ridiculous pranks.’

‘Pranks?’ Sherlock echoes. ‘You wound me, Sally. Do you honestly believe I would be travelling around London with such an item if it were not of vital importance to a case?’

‘I don’t care what you parade around London with,’ Donovan glares at him. ‘But you cannot go scaring tourists. People thought you were a mass murderer.’

‘Surely, Sergeant Donovan, as a member of the Metropolitan Police Service you should know that the more correct term is “serial killer”,’ Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her. ‘The term “mass murderer” is borne more out of hysteria.’

Donovan throws an angry glare at the officers in the car hovering by the kerb as if it is all their fault and they decide that now is the time for a hasty exit.

‘Come inside then, Freak,’ Donovan says, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock follows Sergeant Donovan into Scotland Yard and up to her and Lestrade’s department.

‘So,’ she says finally, spinning around to face him. ‘Want to explain exactly what you’re doing on the underground with that ridiculous… _thing_?’

‘It’s a harpoon,’ Sherlock tells her scathingly. ‘I’d have thought that even you could’ve worked that out.’

‘Don’t sit down,’ Donovan spits out, as he goes to do just that. ‘You’re covered in, is that real blood?’

‘Very real,’ Sherlock assures her. ‘I don’t cut any corners when it comes to my investigations, you know that.’

‘Investigations,’ Donovan scoffs. ‘Don’t make me laugh. You’re nothing more than a cocky amateur.’

Sherlock raises one eyebrow, and very deliberately leans against the white wall.

‘Oh, do you think so?’ he asks. ‘Come on then, _detective_ , tell me what I’ve been doing with my morning.’

‘I could not care less,’ snaps Donovan. ‘I only care that you’re travelling on the underground like that. How did you even get on the train, anyway?’

‘Please,’ Sherlock says, waving a hand with an air of great superiority.

‘Did you threaten the staff, is that what happened?’ Donovan asks.

‘Again, the very fact that you think so little of me hurts me to my very core,’ Sherlock says, eyes wide with innocence. It’s a disconcerting look.

‘Oh, I am not dealing with this,’ Donovan bursts out. ‘Come with me. I’m phoning Lestrade.’

Sherlock follows her at a leisurely pace. Really, it is quite intriguing to catalogue the array of different looks he gets while walking with a harpoon. He stores some of them up in his head for further evaluation. Some of them he stores up because they are merely amusing. He can access them the next time Mycroft is being tiresome.

‘Freak’s here,’ Donovan is practically spitting into the phone when he catches her up. ‘And I can’t get any sense out of him, Sir, nor can I talk any sense into him. You’ll have to speak to him.’

There is a pause. Sherlock is just too far away to hear what Lestrade is saying in reply but he sounds amused.

‘No, Dr Watson isn’t here,’ Donovan is almost frothing at the mouth. ‘I cannot deal with this anymore. Freak, take the phone.’

Sherlock finds the phone shoved into his harpoon-free hand.

‘Lestrade,’ he says smoothly.

‘What have you done now, Sherlock?’ Lestrade sounds like he cannot decide whether to be agitated or entertained. ‘You should really stop giving poor Sally so much to deal with. Now, what’s this about a harpoon?’

Sherlock tells him.

‘Wait until John - ’

‘We will not be informing John about this particular detour in my journey,’ Sherlock says sharply, cutting Lestrade off. ‘He will not be impressed that I have managed to get myself arrested. Almost. Again.’

‘I don’t think anyone’s impressed, Sherlock,’ Lestrade tells him drily.

‘One of your new constables is very impressed indeed,’ Sherlock corrects him. ‘He’s heard rumours about me, and he didn’t think they could possibly be true. He knows better now, of course.’

‘Sherlock!’ Lestrade explodes. ‘Come on, be serious now. What exactly were you doing on public transport with a harpoon? No, I know about the case, but why did you end up on the tube?’

‘None of the cabs I hailed stopped for more than two seconds,’ Sherlock says plaintively, as if actively puzzled by such behaviour.

‘No taxi would take you with a harpoon?’ Lestrade muses. ‘Hmm, I wonder why.’

‘I think the blood may be somewhat off-putting as well,’ Sherlock says thoughtfully.

‘Blood?’ Lestrade echoes. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Sherlock. Couldn’t you have changed your clothes or something?’

‘I did not bring a change of clothes with me,’ Sherlock replies with great dignity. ‘Honestly, Lestrade, I fail to see what all the fuss is about. I harpooned a pig, not a person. Anyone with a modicum of common sense could see that I was causing no trouble at all on the tube.’

‘You can’t go on the tube covered in blood and wielding a two-hundred-year-old weapon,’ Lestrade explains patiently, with the air of explaining to a toddler why he cannot run out into traffic.

‘I wasn’t causing any trouble,’ Sherlock protests. ‘What a load of fuss over nothing. Speak to Donovan. Tell her she is being an idiot and get her to give me a lift home.’

‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade says desperately, but he finds himself speaking to his sergeant once again. His very angry sergeant. 

‘What now, Sir?’ she asks. 

If Lestrade didn’t know Sherlock he would discipline her for her tone of voice. As it is, he makes an allowance.

‘Just take him home,’ Lestrade tells her. ‘He’ll only end up back on the tube if you don’t. Oh and Sally, if he gives you any trouble, just tell him that you’ll tell John Watson what he’s been up to unless he shuts up.’

Sherlock reflects, as he’s taken home, that it would really be a lot less trouble for everyone involved if the Met just agreed to act as his personal taxi service whenever necessary. It would probably help lower the collective blood pressure of half of London. He really should suggest it to Mycroft.


End file.
